


watching you drown, watch you fall down

by darlingargents



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Blackmail, Bullying, Degradation, Degrading Praise, F/F, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, Object Insertion, Painful Sex, Power Dynamics, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: Trisha finds Ruthie alone in the clubhouse.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	watching you drown, watch you fall down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plutonianshores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/gifts).



> Ages unspecified, but they're teens and still live in Derry. Set in an AU where f!Patrick lived through Chapter 1. Title from Heart Killer by Gossling.

Ruthie is dozing in the hammock, half-conscious with her glasses on the floor and a comic splayed across her chest, when she hears the sound of laughter. It jerks her out of her half-awake state, from a hazy dream involving Addy and a smile that made her stomach feel like it was dissolving. It’s the kind of dream she usually tries to forget immediately, and for a moment she’s so distracted by the trying-to-forget that she isn’t thinking about what woke her up.

Then, footsteps. Another laugh. A thud that she can’t identify. It’s not any of the Losers, she’s certain of it. She recognizes the laugh, loud and slightly unhinged: it’s Trisha Hockstetter, who talks to herself and makes those hysterical hyena-like sounds. She’s about to curl back into the hammock and wait it out when she realizes it’s a little too bright in here.

Petrified with horror, Ruthie’s gaze slides up to the trap door. Wide open. Inviting.

It’s too late, she’s sure of it, but Ruthie has to try anyway. She thrashes trying to get out of the hammock and lands hard on her belly, scraping her chin on the floor and missing crushing her glasses by maybe half a foot. She scrambles to her feet — still in socks, her shoes casually tossed aside when she got in the hammock — and runs over to the ladder and climbs it, chancing a glance aboveground as she does so. She can’t see Trisha, so she pulls down the trapdoor, trying to stop it from thudding with impact.

Heart racing, she jumps off the ladder and backs away until she hits a post. She waits, looking up, her heart slowly going back to normal. Maybe she got lucky. If she had ever been lucky in her life, she might believe that.

Despite the initial terror, the moments stretch past, and eventually Ruthie lets out a breath and makes her way back over to the hammock. Her comic is discarded on the floor, and so are her glasses. She picks up the glasses, blows off the dirt and dust, and is about to put them back on when—

_ Thud. _

She spins around. It sounded like it came directly from above her. Ruthie’s pulse pounds in her ears, her glasses falling from her fingers.

_ Thud. _

_ Fuck _ . It’s right above her head, shaking dirt off the rafters. And then a laugh drifts through the air, high-pitched, terrible. Enough to make her ears bleed.

The trapdoor opens, light floods in, and the head of Patricia Hockstetter pops down, dark hair framing her face like a halo. Even without her glasses on, Ruthie can see that Trisha’s smile is terrifying. She shows all her teeth, secure in knowing that she has Ruthie trapped.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says, and Ruthie bites back a scream.

*

Even aside from all the terrifying things about this situation, Ruthie feels really fucking guilty about the fact that Trisha now knows where the clubhouse is.

They don’t use it as often anymore, but it’s still the Loser’s Club’s safe haven, where they meet up and hang out. The hammock smells like the cigarettes she splits with Bev and there are stains on the floor from spilled Cokes and nail polish. Crushed remains of pretzels have sunk between the loose floorboards. When Ruthie’s here, she can close her eyes and hear Addy jabbering from the other end of the hammock, hear Billie and Michaela and Bea talking about some boring-ass research project, taste tobacco between her teeth and hear Bev’s laugh as she hands the cigarette back.

This place is safe. It’s always been safe.

And now it never will be again.

“Cute,” Trisha says as Ruthie jumps up to close the trapdoor and immediately turns back to Trisha, because turning your back on her is a very, very bad idea. Trisha is looking around, wandering slowly with her hands behind her back, like she’s in an art museum. Ruthie remembers that she’s not wearing her glasses, and ducks down to grab them.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Trisha comments as Ruthie jams her glasses against her face and retreats to the corner again, keeping her eyes on Trisha as she moves like a predator. “Who was that kid who liked building shit?”

“Bea,” Ruthie mutters under her breath. Trisha nods.

“Right, the one that Henry carved up like a pig. Did she squeal like that when she was happy, too? Or just when she was being cut up?”

Ruthie bites her tongue to keep from saying something stupid, and digs her nails into her palms to keep from running over and choking Trisha out. She’s seen Trisha’s knives and what she’s willing to do with them, and she values her skin enough to keep her mouth shut and her homicidal feelings confined to her mind.

Besides, she knows exactly what Trisha will do to her if she acts out too much. It’s their agreement — or, well, whatever an “agreement” is if one party has no choice. She lets Trisha fuck her, whenever and wherever she wants, and Trisha won’t tell all of Derry that Ruthie Tozier is a lesbian. They’ve been doing it long enough that Trisha barely has to enforce their agreement; Ruthie does what she says without question. There’s no choice. There never has been and there never will be.

Trisha turns around, suddenly, and Ruthie flinches. She’s wearing a long black overall dress with a long-sleeved shirt underneath, which must be stifling in the unseasonably hot late September weather, and in the front pocket is an empty Coke bottle. She pulls it out and holds it up to the faint light, peering through the glass with one eye shut, like a doctor or optometrist. Ruthie is about to ask what the hell she’s doing when she drops her hand, tucks the bottle away again, and looks into Ruthie’s eyes.

“I found you, so we’re going to have some fun. How’s that?”

Ruthie nods. She knows exactly what Trisha’s definition of  _ fun _ is, and it’s only going to be enjoyable for one of them.

“Strip down and get comfortable.”

There’s no point in arguing or fighting back or trying to run. The first would be a delay of the inevitable; the second and third could end her miserable life. Ruthie strips as quickly and efficiently as possible and piles her clothes next to her shoes, by the hammock, and finds a comfortable spot on the floor. As comfortable as she can find, at least, while sitting naked. Trisha watches her the whole time, with a look in her eye that makes Ruthie a little more nervous about what’s coming. Normally this is when Trisha is stripping down and getting ready to instruct Ruthie on eating her out, or how to 69, or anything else. Normally the nakedness is what worries her. But this is unnerving, too. Trisha looks like she’s ready for something, and Ruthie can be absolutely sure that she won’t enjoy it nearly as much as Trisha will.

Trisha lets Ruthie squirm for a couple of minutes, and then kneels down in front of her and plucks her glasses off her face. Ruthie stops breathing for a second. She can see enough without her glasses to be somewhat functional, but there’s always a sense of panic when she’s not wearing them. Everything is blurrier; she can’t see threats until they’re right in front of her. With Trisha, she needs every warning she can get.

Trisha lifts them up, looking through them like she was looking through the bottle, and says, “You’re really fucking blind, Tozier.”

Ruthie doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she stays still and doesn’t say a word. She’s getting cold, her ass freezing on the dirty floor, and she feels stupid and exposed and extremely naked.

Trisha moves the glasses down and looks at Ruthie through them, and for a moment she can look through from this side and see a shrunken version of Trisha’s head in startling clarity. And then Trisha drops the glasses on the ground, and steps on them with her battered Doc Martens.

“No!” Ruthie shouts, her panic overcoming her self-preservation, jumping forward. It’s too late, and she knew from the moment she heard the hideous  _ crunch _ , but she still grabs them as Trisha lifts her booted foot. The glass is shattered, the frame bent. Unsalvageable. No scotch tape will do a fucking thing.

Ruthie is struck, suddenly, with a painful urge to cry, and she bites down hard on the inside of her cheek to stop the tears from coming. It’s not anywhere near safe to show that kind of weakness here. She places the glasses back on the ground and sits back down, the way she was before, waiting for whatever else Trisha wants to do to her.

She can’t see for sure, but she thinks Trisha is smiling.

Trisha lets her squirm again for a few more moments before dropping to her knees in front of Ruthie. She grabs Ruthie’s thighs with cold hands and spreads them, and reaches between her legs, her touch almost clinical as she slides two fingers over Ruthie’s labia, brushing over her clit, sliding briefly inside her and back out. Ruthie is wet already. She always gets wet when Trisha touches her, even when she doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s a self-defense thing; if Trisha decides to put something inside her, it hurts a lot less if she’s already turned on. Trisha’s fingers pump in and out a couple of times, and then she pulls them back out, licking them off casually. It makes Ruthie shudder with something that might be disgust and might be a painful shot of arousal. It might be both.

Trisha grabs the bottle back out of her pocket, and says, “Open your cunt,” as if Ruthie’s legs aren’t already spread, as if Trisha isn’t kneeling between them. Ruthie spreads her legs a little more, staring at the fuzzy shape of the bottle. She knows what’s about to happen, but it can’t quite compute.

Trisha flips the bottle so that the narrow neck — no cap, luckily — is pointing at Ruthie’s cunt, and pushes it in. Ruthie gasps like she’s been punched in the throat.

The glass is smooth and Ruthie is wet enough that the bottle glides, fairly easily, all the way down the neck. It starts to hurt as it widens, and Ruthie has to close her eyes and hold her breath against the stretch and the pain. Trisha isn’t gentle or patient, and she keeps pushing, the widest part going all the way inside after only a moment. Ruthie lets out a whimper between her clenched teeth, and she’s sure she doesn’t imagine the shudder that runs through Trisha’s body at the sound.

Trisha keeps pushing further and further, and then stops. Ruthie opens one eye to look and sees that it’s in enough that Trisha can barely hold the bottle, and she shudders in pain, trying not to clench down. It hurts enough now, as she tries to hold herself open and as relaxed as she can. She chances a glance at Trisha’s face, and sees a smile like a shark about to devour its next meal.

The bottle twists inside her, just a little, and she can’t stop the painful clench at the strange feeling. Trisha pulls it out almost all the way, just before the point that it narrows again, and pushes it back in.

The only sounds in the clubhouse are the slick sounds of Ruthie’s cunt around the bottle and the heavy breathing they’re sharing. Ruthie starts to pant as Trisha speeds up, as her body adjusts and it starts to feel a little less overwhelming and painful. And Trisha is breathing hard, too, like she’s getting off on this, on Ruthie’s pain or pleasure or both.

“You’re such a good slut,” Trisha says, and Ruthie whines, biting her cheek as her hips shallowly thrust forward, meeting Trisha’s hand. “All you’re good for is being fucked, isn’t that right?”

Ruthie wants to shake her head. She wants to cry. She nods, feeling her face flaming, her breasts bouncing as she fucks herself on the bottle. Maybe it is all she’s good for, being a slut for Trisha. Maybe it’s all she’ll ever be.

“Can you come like this? Just from being fucked?” Trisha’s face is red, her hair falling out of its ponytail around her face.

Ruthie doesn’t think so, but as she thinks that, Trisha speeds up even more and changes the angle and  _ fuck _ , that feels good. A cry escapes her mouth before she can stifle it and Trisha laughs, equal parts mean and delighted.

“You better fucking come for me, slut,” she says, and Ruthie doesn’t know why, but that’s enough to set her off, clenching painfully around the glass as shouts spill out of her lips and her legs shake. Trisha fucks her through it, slow and purposeful, and pulls the bottle out as the aftershocks wear off. It drips on the floor as Trisha holds it up.

“Good job,” she says, and it almost feels like a real compliment. She stands and tosses the bottle into the corner, and Ruthie thinks she’ll probably have to take it out before anyone else sees. Another indignity among many.

She wants to ask if Trisha wants anything, but sometimes Trisha is laser-focused on her, and leaves without touching herself. Sometimes Ruthie wonders if what Trisha really wants is her pain, her fear. If seeing her cry is enough that Trisha doesn’t even need an orgasm.

It’s a terrible thought.

“Hope you can find some new glasses soon,” Trisha says, and Ruthie remembers, with a horrible sinking feeling, that her glasses are broken. She’ll have to bring it home and explain it and do chores to pay them back for the next year.

She looks at the twisted remains of her glasses on the ground as Trisha leaves, helpfully closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes. When Trisha is gone, Ruthie gets to her feet, and winces at the ache in her back. She gets dressed slowly, and ties her shoes properly for once, and picks up the frame of her glasses and sticks them in her back pocket. The broken glass litters the ground, so she kicks it off to the side as best she can, trying not to grind the shattered pieces into the soft wood that makes up the floor.

Lastly, she grabs her comic, and the bottle. It’s drying, sticky and disgusting, and she wants to throw up just from touching it. It didn’t even mean anything. It was just a bottle that Trisha had on her, and that she used to ruin Ruthie’s day. It’s hers now, to destroy or hide and pretend it’s enough to get rid of the same.

Ruthie closes her eyes, and breathes, trying to forget the pain in her cunt, and climbs up the ladder and flips open the trapdoor, leaving the clubhouse and its false safety behind.


End file.
